


and i've never seen a mouth that i would kill to kiss

by Anovelle



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), BAMF Eddie Kaspbrak, Bev and Rich are best friends I'm sorry I don't make the rules, But mostly Richie's inner monologue abt being in deep love with Eddie-centric, Eddie Kaspbrak is in fact a bad bitch and we RESPECT that in this fucking house, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, I think I misspelled Hockstetter's name like four times my b, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier-centric, Unbeta'd, a shitty little bisexual, bless, cause fuck that bitch, end of junior and beginning of senior year for timeline's sake, finished at 5 in the morning because I've never once had self control, first six kisses actually heyoooooooooo, in fact, small town-typical homophobia, they're 17-18 in this, they're gay and they're stupid, title taken from a Halsey song because I am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anovelle/pseuds/Anovelle
Summary: They’re studying, ‘cause finals are coming up and Eddie’ll be damned if he doesn’t beat Richie in at least one of their classes. Richie’d thrown his head back and laughed when he heard that, had crowed, “Keep dreaming Spaghetti,” as Eddie knocked him in the ribs, but he’s not laughing now. No. Not when they’re sprawled out across Eddie’s beige (boring) bedspread, books open in front of them, and Eddie is gesturing wildly and ranting  about the Axis powers or some shit, his perfect hair is askew and the light is catching his eyes just so, and Richie can only think,he’s beautiful.OrFive times Richie kissed Eddie and one time Eddie kissed him first.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 507





	and i've never seen a mouth that i would kill to kiss

**Author's Note:**

> look ik Stephen King said there was a clown, but allow me to suggest a universe where there is not, in fact, a fucking clown, just two boys in love with shitty communication skills.
> 
> title taken from Finally // beautiful stranger by Halsey

1.

It’s really fucking easy, actually. Which is. Surprising. To say the least. Because, like, whenever Richie thought about what _kissing_ _Eddie Kaspbrak_ might look like (sound like, feel like, _be_ like), he’d always pictured, like, drunken shenanigans. Maybe a shitty game of truth or dare. But whatever context he's conjured up, kissing Eddie Kaspbrak is always this hard, burning thing that sears right through to the heart of him. It’s Eddie’s biting words translating to Richie’s bitten mouth. It’s hands clutching and bruising and harsh. There’s nothing sweet or lovely about it, ‘cause there’s nothing sweet or lovely about Richie and Eddie—RichieandEddie—with their shrapnel tongues and constant ribbing. But that’s not how it happens.

How it happens is like this:

They’re studying, ‘cause finals are coming up fast and Eddie’ll be damned if he doesn’t beat Richie in at least _one_ of their classes. Richie’d thrown his head back and laughed when he heard that, had crowed, “Keep dreaming Spaghetti,” as Eddie knocked him in the belly, but he’s not laughing now. No. He can't, not when they’re sprawled out across Eddie’s beige (boring) bedspread, books open in front of them, and Eddie is gesturing wildly and rantingabout the Axis powers or some shit, and his perfect hair is askew and the light is catching his eyes just _so,_ and Richie can only think, _he’s beautiful._

And then—

_I love him._

It’s no surprise, no punch to the gut or a kick in the teeth. It isn’t even the first time Richie’s had that particular thought about Eddie. But it is the first time he’s had it while Eddie's sitting so close, the first time he’s _let_ himself have it while Eddie's sitting so close. And in an hour, he’ll remember exactly _why_ he doesn’t let himself, but that’s in an hour and Richie’s always liked to live in the now.

Which is why he sits up from where he’s been leaning on his elbows, gets his face right up close to Eddie's, and kisses him.

It’s a soft kiss. The sort of kiss that's more than a peck, but not quite hot or heavy or wet. Just—gentle. Slick mouths pressed together in the syrupy heat of May. The sort of kiss that lasts just long enough for Eddie to let out a surprised little _hmpf!_ The sort of kiss that's just long enough for Eddie start to to kiss him back.

And it’s _good._ That might be the strangest part about it. Because Eddie’s mouth is usually such a relentless thing, but it’s so so careful here, locked with Richie’s, and when Richie draws back, it follows for the smallest half of a half-second, chasing after his bottom lip, and, well—

If Richie weren’t a goner before, he certainly is now.

Which is probably why it takes him a moment to move out of Eddie’s space, too fascinated by the blush dusting his ears and cheeks (Richie’s match, if the heat around his neck is anything to go by), by the way his eyelashes flutter, by the way his mouth is parted and his chin is still tilted forward, like he’s waiting for more.

But move out of his space he does, flopping back onto the bedspread.

“You were saying?” He toes Eddie's shin, smirk already securely fastened to his cheek.

Eddie blinks.

For a moment, Richie thinks that he's is going to do something—yell, or kick him out, or maybe (ideally) shove the books to the floor and climb on Richie’s lap and have his wicked way with him (again, _ideally)_ —but then it’s gone, and Eddie resumes his tirade as if nothing ever happened at all.

2.

They don’t talk about it.

What’s there to talk about? They kissed. So what? It shouldn't change anything between them.

And it really doesn’t. They still hang out in the Barrens with the rest of the Losers. They still mess around at the arcade the way 17 year old boys are wont to do. They still go to wild, high school ragers and drink shitty beer and dance to shitty music. See? Nothing’s changed.

Except that something must have, because for all that Eddie still laughs at Richie's jokes and calls him Trashmouth and punches him in the arm, he’s never pressed himself quite so close when they’ve danced before.

The party is Greta Keene's, and the Losers are crashing. It's a bit of a 'fuck you' to the assholes at their school, but mostly it's an excuse to get drunk somewhere that isn't the Barrens, on cheap liquor that they didn't have to shell out for. Richie's saving up for some repairs on his truck, he hasn't got extra money lying around for Smirnoff Ice.

Not the point.

The point is that Greta's basement is dark, and pulsing, and Richie is drunk (they’re both so very drunk). His thumb is tucked into the hollow of Eddie’s hip, riding up his t-shirt. Eddie’s eyes are liquid in the faint blue light of the makeshift dj booth, boring straight into Richie’s. And they’re close. They’re so close. Half an inch closer and they'd be grinding together and that’s just—

Fuck.

They’re not talking either. It’s just eyebrows quirking and hands guiding and heat heat heat from all the places they’re not quite flush, but soon might be. Soon really might be.

Richie swears he leans his forehead against Eddie’sas they sway just to get a better look at those liquid eyes, but it turns into their noses bumping, then their mouths, and then they’re kissing. No, not kissing. Full on making out in Greta Keene’s basement, where anyone could see them. Eddie’s tongue rolls against his and Richie’s eyes roll to the back of his damn head. He thinks he might moan (he probably does moan) but it’s lost in the thrum of the music; in the hot, hard breath Eddie’s panting into his mouth.

When they break apart, Richie’s cheeks are so flushed he thinks they might burst, Eddie’s mouth is bitten red, and they’re both half-hard in their jeans.

They don’t talk about it.

3.

It’s not a problem. Richie swears it’s not. It’s just that now that they’ve kissed—twice—the ache in Richie’s chest that thrums of _Eddie_ has gotten even stronger. Which. He didn’t know that was possible, but it’s fine. It’s totally fine. He’s been dealing with this for months now. And, sure, there was that one slip up in Eddie’s room, and the drunken makeout that Richie _might_ have jacked off to for weeks after (still does if he’s being honest, cause holy shit— _Eddie’s tongue was in his mouth)_ , but it’s fine. It’s absolutely fucking fine. If there’s anything Richie Tozier is an absolute pro at, it’s repressing the shit out of his feelings.

It mostly works. It would work better, of course, if Eddie weren’t always staring at Richie like he’s a particularly difficult calculus set, or, like, a conversation with his mom about vaccines. It’d work even better if Richie had any idea how to look away. But it works. Mostly.

It works, except for the times when looking at Eddie and _not_ looking at Eddie hurts like a damn knife to the chest, when being around him and _not_ being around him both weigh so damn heavy on his heart. It works except for the times where their eyes catch and Richie sort of wants to drop to his knees and offer Eddie the world, _it’s yours, baby, you just have to ask. Oh, you want the moon, too? Let me grab a lasso and I’ll get it down for you._

Cause the thing is, now Richie’s had a taste of what it’s like to be Eddie’s, a taste of sunlit kisses on his bedspread and drunken groping in a basement, he wants the meal more than he ever thought he could. He wants to hold Eddie’s hand and sleep with Eddie curled up to his chest. He wants Eddie to smile at him, a little nervous and a lot sneaky, over a milkshake he’s about to blow bubbles in, except it’s a milkshake that they’re sharing, so it’s definitely gonna get all over Richie’s glasses. He wants to crawl through Eddie’s window to kiss him, soft and sweet and tender, under the light of the Derry moon, and then when they graduate, he wants to run away with Eddie and the rest of the Losers and never look back. Start a band, get famous, win a bunch of Grammys, and then he and Eddie will get a cat and name it after Stan just to piss him off. That’s the fucking dream.

The thing about the fucking dream, though, is that it’s impossible. Because even though Richie is head over ass for Eddie, he’s at least 99.3% certain that Eddie just sees him as a friend who he’s kissed a few times. Or rather, a friend who kissed him.

So. Repression.

They’re at another dumb party, quieter than the last one. The theatre kids put it on, and since Richie is part of the fall play, it mean’s it’s also kind of _Richie’s_ dumb party, and so he’s gotten invites for all the Losers. No need to thank him, just show up with booze and be out by midnight.

It’s a post-show sort of affair, the sort where half the girls are still in their stage makeup cause they think it makes them look older or more sophisticated or something. It doesn’t, but that’s not the point. The point is that it’s the theatre kids that put it on, and theatre kids are fucking horndogs. So it’s no surprise when the lead throws down an empty fifth and demands them to play spin the bottle. Normally he’d object, but Richie is a pleasant kind of drunk and still flying high off the thrill of not having missed any of his lines, and so he drags the Losers into the circle with the rest, shoving right in between Eddie and Bill. He pretends not to notice Eddie’s blush, or the way their bare knees knock together where they sit, because if he does his head will probably explode and he knows for a fact that Sally Mueller’s mom wouldn’t take too kindly to Richie’s Trashmouth brains dirtying up her pristine carpet.

It’s not until after they sit that Richie realizes that he didn’t think this through. Eddie is _right_ next to him, playing Spin the Bottle, of all things. What if they land on each other? What if they _don’t_ land on each other, and Richie has to watch Eddie kiss someone else? One of the Losers might not be so bad, but the circle is a lot bigger than just the Losers. It takes a surprising amount of people to put on a play, and right now, Richie is surrounded by just about all of them. 

He might be starting to regret this.

“You-you okay, Rich?” Bill nudges him. Richie swallows.

“Fine Big Bill,” he plasters a flaky grin onto his mouth. “Just worried I won’t make it over to Eddie’s in time to meet Mrs. K. You know how she gets when she can’t have some of that good old Richie lovin’.”

Bill snorts. “B-beep beep Richie.”

He turns back to the circle, leaving Richie to stew.

Okay. Best case scenario, neither of them get picked, and Richie can get through the game he stupidly dragged them all into without having a fucking meltdown.

For awhile, it seems that whatever turtle gods rule the universe have answered his prayers. The bottle spins amiably, stopping on a few people more than others, but no matter. The minutes pass, the most exciting moment for any of them being when Mike got a lovely smooch from one of the girls in the orchestra pit named Eloise, and both Bill _and_ Stan’s faces twisted up in jealousy, and twisted up again when Mike spun the bottle and it landed on Beverly.

But then, it happens. The fateful spin. Beverly sends the bottle hurtling on its axis, and Richie’s been laughing too hard at Bill and Stan to notice that its’ weird, physics-driven nepotism is now focused on the Losers’ side of the the circle.

Until it lands on Eddie.

Richie swears his face goes white.

And look, Richie doesn’t really consider himself to be a jealous person, or at least, not a possessive one. He’s not _angry_ when Bev kisses Eddie, all sweet and innocent and light as a damn feather. It’s just that the breath gets punched out of his chest by sadness. Which, yeah, is a little pathetic, but _come on._

_I was counting on you, turtle gods. You let me down._

He’s still wallowing a bit when Eddie spins the bottle, still wallowing, even, when it lands on him, and Stan nudges him in the arm from where he’s sitting on Bill’s other side.

“What—?”

He turns to see Eddie, looking at him a bit expectantly.

“You don’t have to,” he starts, but Richie interrupts with, “No no no! It’s, uh. It’s fine.”

Eddie’s face does a weird twitch when Richie says that, but no matter. They’ve got kissing to do. Richie shuffles in a bit closer, rearranging his knees so that he’s slightly above Eddie (like he isn’t _always_ slightly above Eddie), and cups his cheeks.

Eddie’s mouth is fucking soft. It’s always fucking soft, Richie’s learned. Because they’ve done this before. Cause they’re doing it _again,_ except now there are like, 30 people watching them. Richie’s trying very hard to keep it light, but then Eddie’s tongue nudges his closed lips and that plan back flips out of the window.

There are a few wolf whistles and a couple of “ow ow!”’s from around the circle. No one seems to give a fuck that it’s two guys kissing. Theatre kids. Bless.

This kiss is different than the two previous; maybe a little performative in how Eddie nips his bottom lip. But Richie doesn’t care, cause his hands are cupping Eddie’s face, and wow, he’s never noticed how perfectly his thumb fits into the divot of Eddie’s chin when he tilts his head back to kiss him deeper, or how Eddie’s tongue really is _quite_ a talented thing, licking into his mouth like this. He thinks it might have been just as good last time, but he’d been too drunk to really appreciate it.

The room is a little hazy when they pull apart. Richie wonders if the contacts he’d worn for the performance can fog like his glasses do. One thing is clear, though, and that’s Eddie, looking at Richie like he’s trying to figure out how to tell his mom that he got the flu shot this year. But before Richie can cave and say something like, _What, Eds, have I got something on my face?_ Bill taps him on the shoulder and says, “Y-ya gotta spin Rich.”

And that’s when Richie remembers that they’re at a party, surrounded by their friends, and that they’re playing a game, _a damn game,_ that he got them into, and so he can’t stare at the pretty flush on Eddie’s cheeks, cause he’s gotta fucking _spin._

So spin he does, making sure that there’s joy coming out of every damn pore when the bottle lands on Ben, and swooping in to give Haystack a kiss he’ll never forget.

4.

The thing about Henry Bowers is that he’s an asshole.

The thing about Eddie Kaspbrak is that he’s secretly a bigger one.

But see the thing is, where Eddie Kaspbrak has a heart of gold, Henry Bowers hasn’t got much of a heart at all.

Hasn’t got much of a brain either, ‘cause one day he decides it’s a good idea to start on some shit about one of the Losers while Eddie is within earshot. And look, they’re not middle school anymore, alright? They’re not a bunch of scrawny, gawky 13 year olds matched up against the overgrown school bullies. They’re, like, leveling out. Even Eddie, who’s still the smallest of their motley crew, packs a hell of a punch in that compact little body of his. So that day, when Henry Bowers starts spouting some shit from his putrid mouth, Eddie pounces like the pissy chihuahua he is. By the time they’d gotten there— _they_ being Richie and Ben and Bev, _there_ being the back parking lot where Bowers liked to smoke—Bowers was on the ground, whimpering, his nose crooked and bleeding and blue, and Eddie’d given Hockstetter a black eye. Which would be awesome, except that Hockstetter had Eddie pressed to the wall, one fist curled in his shirt and the other raised to hit him. Eddie already had a nasty bruise spreading over his temple, but he was still jeering; chin tilted, all cheek and defiance and fire, and, oh, has Richie mentioned that he loves him? 'Cause he does. He really fucking does.

Doesn't mean that he wasn’t scared out of his goddamn mind though.

“Eddie!” He’d shouted, and Hocksetter turned away just in time to see Ben rushing forward to tackle him to the ground.

Which is why they’re in the bathroom at Ben’s house now, Eddie on the counter, Richie standing between his legs, dabbing at the cut on his cheek from when he bit the pavement after Hocksetter shoved him away with a warm washcloth, and reprimanding him. _Richie._ Richie Tozier. Reprimanding Eddie Kaspbrak for doing something reckless.

“This is a weird kind of role reversal, eh Eds?” Richie says eventually. “Usually you’re the one that gets to play nurse.”

“Is it everything you ever dreamed of?” Eddie asks dryly.

“And more,” Richie assures him. Eddie snorts, and Richie grins, and then they’re silent again.

The bruise isn’t really that bad. Like, Eddie’s mom will definitely freak, but it’s not going to kill him or anything. Eddie’d checked his own pupils, the absolute madman, and declared himself fine, but they were waiting for Ben’s dad to get home to give an actual nurse’s opinion on the whole deal. Until then, Richie’s here, cleaning Eddie’s cut according to Eddie's own, careful instructions, and smearing arnica all over his face. It makes Eddie hiss, cause he’s a damn cat (cat, chihuahua, take your pick, Rich), and Richie says, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” till he’s done.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Eddie mutters. “Just cold.”

“Well then sorry about the cold. Damn, Eds. Only you could criticize me when I’m apologizing.”

Eddie laughs, even though it’s really not that funny, and then winces, one hand coming up to clutch his side.

Richie narrows his eyes.

See the thing about Eddie is this: he fibs like he breathes. Not always well, but manageably and constantly. Another thing about Eddie is this: he rarely fibs to Richie.

Another thing about Eddie is this: the last time he fibbed to Richie was when Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter held his arm between the posts of the Neibolt house's fence and closed the gate.

“Eds?” Richie says carefully. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Eddie says. “Just, uh. Got an itch.”

He digs his nails into his side as if to prove it, jaw tightening as he scratches. And look, Richie respects his commitment to the lie, he’s just not a huge fan of how Eddie grimaces. So he tries again, “Eddie.” He says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eddie mutters.

“Eddie,” Richie leans in closer. _“What’s wrong?”_

Eddie looks at him for a long moment, teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek. It's almost like he’s searching Richie for something. Whatever it is, he must find it, because he sighs and lifts his shirt and—

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“Fuck.”

“Rich—"

 _“Fuck,_ Eds, what the fuck?”

His ribs are bruised to shit, all purple and mottled and painful-looking. Richie doesn’t know what to do, what to say, except—

“Fuck.”

“Look, Richie, it’s fine, it barely hurts—"

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

"Yeah," Eddie huffs. "I know."

"Cool," Richie says blankly. His hands are shaking. "Just making sure."

And then, because he honestly has no idea what else to do, he reaches for the arnica.

Eddie's torso is a lot more banged up than his face. Richie's head is swimming with scary words like _broken ribs,_ and _internal bleeding,_ and _Ms. K isn't gonna let Eddie out of the house for a month if she sees this shit._ He lets them lap around his brain, because if he focuses on worrying, he can't notice how close they are, or how warm Eddie's skin is, or the fact that this is not how he wanted his first time touching Eddie like this to go.

It doesn't stop his traitor of a mouth from asking, "Why did you do it?" though.

Eddie sighs. "They were talking shit."

"'Bout us?"

"Who else?"

Richie hums noncommittally. Who else indeed.

"What was it this time?"

Cause it had to be something. Eddie, pissy as he can be, doesn't just jump people that are bigger than him for no reason. He's, like, smarter than that. But Eddie's quiet. He face is all tight and angry like it gets when Richie's done something to _really_ grind his gears. 

"C'mon, man," Richie says. "It's not that big a deal. What, did he make a pass at your mom? 'Cause if so, thank you for defending my territory, Spaghetti, but I can fight my own—"

"They were talking about you, Rich," Eddie says quietly. Richie falters, the pads of his fingers sticky against Eddie's stomach. He sort of can't breathe.

"They were calling you these-these _horrible_ names," he continues, "I couldn't just let them—"

"You should've," Richie unfreezes long enough to cap the arnica and allow Eddie to tug his shirt back down. He can't believe this. Can't believe Eddie. He's fucking—he's smarter than this. He's _fucking smarter than this._ He _knows_ that it doesn't matter that Bangor has a Pride parade or that _one_ cafe in town hangs up a rainbow flag every June. This is still _Derry._ It's still a small town full of assholes, and if all Richie has to deal with is Bowers and his goons calling him some stupid names, then well, at least no one's trying to kill him for just fucking existing.

At least no one's getting their absolute shit beat on Richie's behalf.

"Rich," Eddie says, and oh no, he's upset. His voice is all tight, like an elastic ready to snap. "You didn't hear them. They called you—"

"What, a dirty queer? A fairy? A fruit?" Richie shakes his head, bitterness welling up in his throat. "C'mon, man. It's not like it's not true."

"That doesn't fucking _matter,_ Rich, you shouldn't have to _deal_ with that shit. Like, why should anyone give a flying fuck that you're bisexual?"

"Fucking _shit,_ I don't know, Eds, but fucking _look at you,"_ He points to Eddie's face, where the bruises are the most obvious. "Look at your face. Look at your fucking _ribs._ You're, like, one giant fucking bruise right now, and for what? They're not gonna stop saying that shit, Eddie."

Richie buries his face in his hands. He can't look at Eddie right now, at the swollen, purple state of him. If he looks, he'll lose it for real.

"Richie, I get you're mad at me—"

"I'm not mad at you, Eds, I'm fucking—I'm pissed at Bowers, and Hocksetter, and the situation, and this whole fucking town, but not at you, okay? Never at you."

"Rich," Eddie says, soft and devastated in a way that he's only heard once or twice before. But Richie can't, okay? Cause now they're not just bruises, not just evidence of Eddie being a reckless little fuck. They're because of Richie. They're because Eddie was standing up for _Richie._

Eddie's hands are warm where they slide over his wrists, dragging Richie back into the v of his knees, warm when he says, "Richie," and pulls Richie's away from his face.

He says, "Look at me," and Richie does.

Here is what he sees: he sees Eddie, his brown eyes wide and sincere, his soft mouth bowed down. And he sees the bruises, marring his skin from jaw to temple in the exact shape of Patrick Hockstetter's ugly fist.

He reaches for them, lights over their edges. Then he leans forward and brushes his lips across the dark purple and yellow crawling up Eddie's forehead.

Eddie's eyes flutter shut.

"I'm sorry," Riche murmurs. "I never want to you to get hurt for me."

"It was worth it," Eddie breathes, and then when Richie starts to shake his head again, _"Richie._ It was worth it."

It wasn't, but Richie doesn't know how to make Eddie see that. So instead, he tucks another gentle kiss into Eddie's cheek, another into the edge of his jaw, and stays there for a moment. Stays until Eddie's breath hitches. When he draws back, Eddie's eyes are shut.

"Richie," he sways forward so that their foreheads are pressed together, their noses bumping, and heaven and hell and purgatory, is Richie gone on this boy. Gone on his reckless heart and his shaky lungs.

It's a soft kiss, a lot like that first one, that day on the bed. Except this time, Eddie's expecting him. This time, Eddie's fingers are wrapped loosely around his wrists, thumb pressed against his pulse. This time when Eddie kisses back, it's gentle and unhurried and achingly sincere. As if they do this all the time, kissing just to be close to each other. Richie doesn't move his hands from where they grasp gently at the nape of Eddie's neck. Where the kiss at the party—either party, take your pick—left him itching and wanting and warm, this one soothes. Like, emotional aloe or something. Kissing Eddie like this—just to feel his chest stutter against Richie's, just to be surrounded by his warmth—it's like a muffler to the loudest parts of his head. For the first time in a really long time, Richie's almost...at peace.

Eddie looks as doped up as Richie feels when they draw back, eyes half-closed and slow to blink. He's drawing lazy circles along Richie's palm, and Richie can't help but swipe his thumb gently across Eddie's lower lip, just 'cause he can. Eddie kisses it, then turns and presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, right over the vein, and holy shit, Richie's _melting._

 _You want the moon, too?_ He thinks erratically.

"Eddie—" he breathes, and he doesn't know what he's going to say next. Doesn't know if there's anything else to say. What could be more important than the sound of Eddie's name—?

And then the door bangs open across the hall, and Mr. Hanscom announces that he's home, and the moment is gone. Real life rushing through the cracks again.

Richie backs away, out of Eddie's space, out of his warmth. Clears his throat, and says, "You should. Um. Probably get your head checked out."

Eddie looks at him strangely.

“Are you ever going to mean this?” He asks. Richie frowns and cocks his head. "What?"

Eddie just shakes his head and hops down from the counter. “Nothing, Rich,” he says. His voice is rough around the edges. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

And with that he leaves Richie standing in the bathroom, feeling like he missed something very important.

5.

The thing is, Richie doesn’t really get _pissed_ at Eddie. Sure they bicker, sure they get on each other’s nerves, but that’s just _them._ Just RichieandEddie. Fighting is how they show their love at this point.

But right now?

Right now Richie is _seething._

He doesn’t even remember what they were fighting about, just that it had quickly turned brutal and ugly and _mean,_ and now they’re shouting, too close together, and Richie just _can’t,_ alright?

“You are such an asshole!” Eddie yells, spit flying from his teeth.

“I’m an asshole?” Richie says incredulously. _“I’m_ an asshole? Well guess what _Spaghetti?_ Takes one to _fucking_ know one!”

And he hates it, he really does. He absolutely hates fighting with Eddie, worse than he hates fighting with Bill or Bev or any of the other Losers. Because Richie fucking _loves_ Eddie, bone-deep, down in the marrow kind of love, and so times like this, when they’re going toe to toe in some valiant pissing contest, are kind of the worst.

“Holy _shit_ do you even hear yourself?” Eddie’s tearing at his hair now. “What, are you twelve? Can’t you take one thing seriously?”

“Like what? The fact that you’re too chickenshit—“

“That’s really fucking rich coming from you, you know—“

“What’s that supposed to mean—?”

“You know _exactly_ what that means!”

Eddie shoves him, _hard,_ but it’s not anger, exactly. Not all the way through. There’s something else to that shove, raw and thrumming like a live wire, like a challenge. Like he’s saying _shove me back._

So Richie does. He knocks Eddie’s hand away and growls, “Look, I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about, but I’m not doing this with you. And I’m _not_ a chickenshit.”

“Yeah?” Eddie snorts derisively. “Prove it.”

It’s a challenge as much as it’s also some fucked up invitation, Richie can tell by the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, by the way his jaw tightens, chin tilted like—

_—he’s waiting for more—_

_—_ he’s waiting for Richie to hit him but Richie won’t, _can’t_ hurt him. Not ever.

So instead, he grabs him by the waist and yanks him in so that they're face to face.

"This proof enough for you?"

And then he kisses him.

And this— _this—_ is what he imagined kissing Eddie Kaspbrak would feel like. Eddie’s fingers curl in his t-shirt as he hisses, as Richie shoves him back back back, into the wall, his hands just shy of bruising on Eddie’s hips. Eddie whines when his back connects with the wood, sinks his teeth into Richie’s lower lip, and _tugs._ Richie can’t help but groan.

 _I want to take you apart,_ he thinks, pulling away only to latch onto Eddie’s neck and _suck._ Eddie gasps harshly, fingers twisted in Richie’s hair, his breath stuttering where Richie's got a palm splayed over his ribs and rucking up his shirt. He runs his fingernails experimentally down Eddie’s side, and is rewarded when Eddie fucking _keens,_ his head knocking back against the wall, lips parting, and Richie _has_ to kiss him, alright? He has to. So he does, rough and dirty, biting and sucking and licking into Eddie’s warm mouth, shoving a leg up between his knees just to hear him groan, punched out and needy, yanking him close close close so that their hips line up and rock together. Eddie gasps, teeth flashing across Richie’s neck, and now it’s Richie’s turn to groan because he’s on _fire._ He has to be. Theres no other explanation for the heat licking at his belly, at his chest, in between his damn _toes_. He wants to live in this moment forever, the one where Eddie’s mouthing wetly at his jaw and his skin is soft beneath Richie’s hands.

So it’s kind of a shock when Eddie shoves him away.

“What—?”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head, his voice tight and his chest heaving. “Fucking _no,_ Richie, stop.”

“Okay,” Richie backs up and holds his hands up in front of him, cause the very last thing he wants to do is hurt Eddie. He never wants to hurt Eddie. He _loves_ Eddie. “I’m sorry,” he says. Doesn’t know what else to say. What else to do. Eddie's got his hands pressed to his eyes, all stressed-like, and usually Richie would reach out, pull them down, and let Eddie squeeze his fingers until he could feel his bones grind against each other, but he doesn't think he's allowed to now. So instead he tries, "Eds—"

"Don't call me that," Eddie snaps.

And that—that fucking stings. That stabs somewhere behind his ribs that Richie didn't know could feel quite so much. He rears back. "Eddie, I—"

"Jesus _Christ,_ Rich, can't you just leave me the fuck alone?"

 _No,_ Richie wants to say, because the fingers Eddie has pressed to his eyes are starting to wet, and his chest is starting to shake, and he isn't about to leave Eddie when he's crying, okay? He's just—he's fucking _not._

He makes to do something—to hug him or put a comforting hand on his shoulder or just shove him into the hammock while Richie gets him a water and a snack and the his stupid inhaler that he doesn't need—but before he can make it half a step, Eddie shouts, "Richie, holy fuck, can you please just go? Just, fucking—don't alright? I don't—I don't want to see you."

And if what Eddie'd said before had stung, this is crushing. This is a weight unlike anything Richie's ever known squeezing at his chest, right down to the very marrow of him. He can't escape from it, he can't _do_ anything about it, it's just there.

(Maybe it's not there. Instead, maybe it's the absence of something that's usually present; a sort of gravity of being. A kind of spiritual glue.)

The interesting thing about people is that they have a fight or flight response to stressful situations. The interesting thing about Richie is that, as much shit as he runs from, he'll usually fight when it's something important. When it's for his parents, or his friends. When it's for Eddie. The interesting thing about Eddie is that he knows this.

So, here and now, when kicked in the teeth with something he wants to fight for, and kicked again when the choice to fight is no longer available, Richie Tozier does the one thing he can do.

He flies.

———

“I fucked up, Bev,” Richie passes the cigarette over.

“Whaddaya mean?” She says.

“Eds,” he replies. “I just—I fucked it up with Eds.”

They're in the back parking lot, the same place Eddie got the shit beat out of him. They've been coming here for two weeks, because Richie is a damn masochist and he'll take whatever reminders of Eddie he can get.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bev pats his back. “I’m sure you didn’t fuck it up.”

“You didn’t see it,” he shakes his head. _“Christ._ He hates me. I’m like, actually sure that he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you Rich,” Bev says. It sort of sounds like a promise. “Look, you two fight all the time. This can’t be any worse than any of your other spats.”

“But that’s not _fighting,_ Bev. Not really. That’s just…us.”

Bev nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But still, Rich. Whatever it is, I’m sure Eddie will come around.”

“This was different,” Richie mournfully shakes his head. He’s not even tempted to do a Voice right now, he’s that fucking sad. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe you won’t have to,” Bev says. Her tone is all mysterious and knowing and _Bev._ “Trust me Rich. It’ll all work out.”

“No, it won’t,” Richie says. It’s not petulant, not even close. It’s just a statement of fact. Bev must notice it, too, must notice that it’s not just a Richie Moment like he sometimes has, the ones where his head yells awful things at him until he sort of just wants to lay down and die. She kicks lightly at a pebble, and hands him the cigarette.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She offers. It seems a little moot, seeing as Richie’s never taken her up on it before. But today is different. Today the sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and Eddie Kaspbrak hasn’t spoken to him in two weeks.

So Richie closes his eyes, and he does.

+1.

Seeing Eddie again should not be this awkward. They're in the group, for Chrissake. They're always _fine_ when they're in the group. They just talk to Bill or Mike (Eddie) or Stan or Bev (Richie), and avoid avoid avoid. They do _not_ make awkward eye contact over their friend's heads, or dance around each other, or spare the hammock mutual glances that lead to _more_ awkward eye contact over their friend's heads.

(No one has custody of Ben when they argue. Haystack is too sweet to make him choose sides like that.)

(Besides, they all know he'd choose Beverly's, which means he'd choose Richie's, and that's just not fair to Eddie.)

Maybe it's the nature of the thing. The fact that they're not just having a normal, state-mandated, RichieandEddie fight. Maybe it's because they kissed and now it's been three weeks since they talked, and Bev keeps giving Richie these looks that are equal parts frustrated and sympathetic. Maybe it's because when they fight, there's usually a winner and a loser. Maybe because this isn't a fight at all.

It hurts like a motherfucker, though.

The Losers are starting to notice. Richie spots Bev whispering something to Ben, and then each of them whispering to Mike and Stan, and then Stan whispering to Bill, like some kind of human mouse-trap reactor. He closes his eyes.

It's no surprise when, five minutes later, Bev has to go and Ben offers to walk her home, and when five minutes after that, Mike remembers something he has to do on the farm and hey, Bill and Stan, my grandpa wanted to talk to you about something to do with the books..? And then in a clatter of sneakered feet and _oh yeah, right's,_ the clubhouse is empty save for Eddie and Richie, just like it was three weeks ago.

Neither of them move at first. Richie sticks to his corner, with the comics and the space heater, and Eddie sticks to his, with the first aid kit and the piles of snacks. The silence is stifling, and Richie sort of wants to cry.

He waits for Eddie to talk. To move. To _do_ _something._ Because Eddie told Richie to leave him alone, and Richie is fucking trying, alright? Trying to swallow down the too-big feeling that spills into his chest whenever Eddie comes near him. Trying to fill in the hollow weight of his sternum with smoking and comics and sunshine, trying to breathe around it.

He read somewhere that you can die of a broken heart. That it's, like, actually, scientifically possible. Too much emotional stress, and part of your heart can swell up. It won't pump blood right, and so the rest of it has to pick up the slack. The problem with that, though, is that the rest of your heart has to work that much harder to keep everything running, that sometimes, it just straight up fails. Kicks the bucket. Goes kupoot.

Richie sort of thinks his heart'll go kupoot if he has to stay in this limbo with Eddie for a second longer.

"I'm sorry."

Eddie's head shoots up, surprised, and Richie's surprised too. He hadn't planned on opening his mouth, but now he doesn't know how he's going to force it shut again.

"What—?"

"I'm really fucking sorry, okay? For-for all of it. It was a mistake, I get that."

Eddie's looking at him now, his face marred with something that looks a lot like pain, but Richie doesn't know what else to do, alright? He just wants this to be over.

(Except it's not, it's not what he wants. But what he wants is impossible, because Eddie shoved him away and Eddie said _Just leave me alone, Rich,_ in that way that made Richie _ache_ and Eddie hasn't spoken to him once in the last three weeks, and Richie...Richie will take what he can get.)

"Right," Eddie nods, all stiff and proper and _not Eddie._ Nods in a way that makes Richie wonder if they're ever going to be okay at all. "A mistake," he echoes. It sounds hollow.

"Yeah," Richie bites out, even though it burns his mouth and behind his eyes to say it.

 _It'll be worth it,_ he tells himself. _If this fixes everything between us, it'll be worth it. I don't need to kiss him again, I just need_ him.

It's quiet.

Then—

"Fuck you, Richie."

Eddie's voice is wet.

Richie _really_ wants to cry.

"Eddie—"

"No, really. Fuck you. You can't just—fucking _shit,"_ Eddie presses his fingers to his eyes, hard and fast."Did you ever really mean it? Fuck, were you just trying to—I don't fucking know. Mess me around? Or, like, fucking keep me on hold in case you couldn't get someone better? Am I just your backup boyfriend—?"

Wait.

What?

"Backup—Eddie, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"You! And you're—you, kissing me. All the time. But obviously it didn't— _you_ didn't—"

Richie's head is spinning. There's something—he's missing something here, he knows it. He wants to—he doesn't know, alright? But the air is too damn thin and every breath feels like he's choking on bile. 

"You think I didn't mean it?" He says incredulously. "Really? You think that-that kissing you meant nothing to me? That I was just some horny fucking kid, joking around?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Eddie throws his hands up. His eyes are bright and full of flint. "You would just—you'd kiss me and then you wouldn't do anything! Or we were drunk! Or it was some game at a party—!"

"Not every time. Not the first time," Richie says, tight and desperate, because Eddie has to know—he _has_ to, right? That this iseverything to Richie?

"I _know,_ Rich," He deflates then, shoulders slumping. He's got his fingers pressed to his eyes again. "That's why I was so—fuck, that's why I've been so fucked up about it, okay? Cause why would you do that and then—"

"Cause I didn't know how you felt! I've been—holy _fuck,_ Eds, I've been head over ass for you since you kicked Bowers in the head when we were thirteen years old!"

Everything stops all at once. Eddie turns slowly around to look at Richie, whose mouth is still hanging desperately open from when he just blurted _that_ fuckery out.

Shit.

"I—what?"

_Shit._

"Yeah, dumbass. And you think that kissing you wasn't—?"

Richie swallows, closes his eyes. He can't say this if he has to look at Eddie. He'll chicken out before he gets halfway through.

"If you think that kissing you wasn't damn near everything to me—if you think _you're_ not damn near everything—"

"Rich—"

"You're wrong." His voice is all croaky around the words. It's sort of gross, but Richie can't stop. It's just heart-bile, spooling out of his dumb mouth. "You're really fucking—shit, I'm pretty sure I love you, Eddie. Like. I'm—fuck this sounds so goddamn lame—I'm _in_ love with you."

He can't open his eyes. He can't. He can't see the disgust on Eddie's face, or the pity, or the—he can't.

"Rich," Eddie says, and he sounds so fucking dismayed.

"I'm sorry," Richie whimpers. "I'm so fucking sorry. I wish I could—I know you don't—"

"Richie," Eddie says, except he's so much closer now. Close enough that Richie can feel the warmth radiating off of him. "Would you—can you open your eyes for me? Please?"

"I can't," Richie says, and fuck, when did his throat get so raw? When the fuck did he start _crying?_

"Richie," Eddie says his name again, and—oh. Those are Eddie's hands, cupping the back of his neck, and that's Eddie's thumb, wiping away the tears collecting on his cheek. And that's Eddie's mouth, pressed to his temple. _Fuck,_ that's—

"Eds—"

"Ssshh," he breathes, and Richie tries not to start crying all over again. Eddie presses a kiss to his forehead next, and Richie's hands fly up to clutch at the sides of his stupid polo shirt, his chest stuttering. Another kiss, this one to his jaw, then another to his neck, then another to his cheek and to his nose. Richie groans, raw and wretched. Eddie shushes him, soothing in his ear, then tucks another kiss into the space just behind it before he pulling back.

"Richie," he whispers. "Please, sweetheart, can you open your eyes for me?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to see you."

A broken sort of sound wrenches out of the back of his throat.

"Eds," Richie starts, and oh, fuck he's _crying_ again holy shit this is inconvenient.

"Sssshh," Eddie smooths his thumb over the side of Richie's neck. "You don't have to," he whispers. "I just. I really want you to believe me."

"And what—seeing is believing?"

"Something like that."

Richie is scared. He's terrified, actually. Cause, in all honesty, this very well could be the nicest _fuck off_ he's ever received. But then again—

Then again it's _Eddie._

If Richie can be brave for anyone, it's him. 

He opens his eyes to find Eddie staring up at him, his cheeks flushed and his mouth parted just _so,_ his gaze alight with hope and determination and something so _fond_ Richie thinks he could drown in it if someone let him. And then he says this.

"Richie," he says, his fingers lighting delicately against Richie's cheeks. "I fucking _love_ you."

And just as Richie gasps, he kisses him.

This kiss is different than the others. Richie'd never realized how guarded they'd been before now, with his hands clinging desperately to Eddie's shirt and Eddie's cupping his jaw. Eddie kisses him like he's something precious, and Richie—

Richie's about to fly the fuck apart. Just, a thousand pieces of Trashmouth, scattered across the clubhouse floor. The only thing keeping him together now is Eddie's mouth and Eddie's warmth and the soft sounds Eddie makes when their tongues skim against each other. Eddie's hands, spanning his neck, holding him in place as they kiss and kiss and kiss. The way Eddie's chest feels, pressed to his, and Eddie moving, walking them back towards the hammock.

Richie breaks the kiss. "Um, Eds, I don't think—"

But what he was about to say doesn't matter, because Eddie takes his hand, leads him to sit, and sits down beside him in the hammock before leaning up to recapture his mouth.

"Better?" He breathes, and Richie nods because yeah, actually, it is better. It's less effort on his shaky knees to kiss Eddie like this, sitting down. It's easier to get above him to kiss him that way too, slow and gentle, his feet still firmly planted on the clubhouse floor.

They stay like that for minutes or hours, Richie doesn't know. It's not like it matters, not when he's made it his personal goal to kiss Eddie until their lips bruise.

He doesn't do it, can't bring himself to be much rougher than a playful bite at Eddie's lower lip. Eddie has less of a problem with that, winding his fingers in Richies hair and spastically squeezing whenever Richie goes to kiss his neck, like he can't help how his hands clench.

 _"Richie,"_ echoes softly between them.

Eventually, they'll stop. Richie will pull away and Eddie will have the wherewithal not to chase after him, will smooth his thumb over Richie's cheek instead, and ask, _what now?_ And Richie will kiss the pad of that thumb, simply because Eddie's kept it too close for him to resist, smile softly, and say, _You tell me, Spaghetti Man._ Eddie will look at him, and Richie'll think, _I am so damn gone on you._ And then Eddie will say, _I love you._ and Richie's grin will widen, and he'll say, _I love you too._ Then Eddie will say, _I want to give this a shot. I want to be with you._ And here's where Richie's grin'll stretch so far across his cheeks he won't even be able to speak, will barely be able to kiss Eddie as he nods furiously. Maybe it's because he doesn't trust his voice, but it's alright. Eddie will understand anyway.

But that's not until later. For now they keep kissing, mouths gentle for each other, as the unseen sun sets outside.


End file.
